


Talk To Me

by leonidaslion



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Humor, M/M, Voice Kink, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-10
Updated: 2011-04-10
Packaged: 2017-10-17 22:03:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/181706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leonidaslion/pseuds/leonidaslion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam discovers a new kink. Dean takes advantage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Talk To Me

**Author's Note:**

> Written for spnkink_meme.

Sam tries to ignore it, he really does, because he’s gotten off on a lot of weird shit but he has to draw the line somewhere. He honestly doesn’t understand how he can be turned on when Dean looks like something that the EMTs dragged back over the lintel of death’s door.

It gets to be so uncomfortable that Sam can’t really bear to look at his brother, actually, and his conversations with Castiel, the Useless Angel, get more and more heated. It’s that asshole’s fault Dean is fucked up in the first place—Dean didn’t want to go anywhere near Alistair, and Sam was all for backing his brother on that decision, but Castiel and his human-hating partner just couldn’t take no for an answer.

And now Sam is stuck with a near perpetual hard-on and a wretched, upset stomach that no amount of Pepto is going to cure.

After chewing Castiel out for what has to be the twentieth time in a twenty-four hour period, Sam finally gives in and turns his chair around to face the window. Dean fell asleep while Sam and the angel were having their discussion, so he won’t read rejection into the move, and without his brother’s battered, bruised form in front of him Sam’s erection finally flags. He starts to breathe a sigh of relief and then immediately stiffens when Dean rasps, “Sammy, what’re you doing?” from behind him.

No, like, _really_ stiffens. Everywhere.

Well, shit.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

At least it’s not actually Dean’s broken body turning him on. Sam tries to console himself with that fact, now that he knows, but it doesn’t help all that much. Because Dean’s voice is only that low, rough rasp because Alistair all but choked him to death, and Sam really shouldn’t be finding that hot. Only he is.

Sam tries shutting up in the hopes that, if he doesn’t say anything, neither will Dean, but that only makes Dean talk more. After a rambling monologue expounding on how much the food in here sucks, and why, Sam actually has to excuse himself and hurry into the bathroom to take care of things. He tries monologuing himself when he gets back, and that works for a while, but Sam’s voice eventually gives out on him. Then, of course, Dean starts asking if he’s okay, trying to get Sam to talk to him some _more_ —this time about what’s bothering him and not the State of the Union—and his voice, that rasping voice that sounds like his throat got fucked one too many times, keeps rubbing up against Sam in the most obscene way and he can’t take it anymore.

“Shut up,” he manages.

Dean blinks at him, looking hurt and pleading and annoyed all at once, and rasps, “What? You can bug me about shit but I can’t bug you? That’s crap.”

Sam shakes his head. He’s so embarrassed he’s blushing, and he ducks his head, unable to meet his brother’s eyes. There’s no easy way to say this, and anyway he doesn’t have the voice left to beat around the bush, so he goes for the jugular.

“When you talk I get hard.”

“Who in the what now?” Dean responds intelligently.

Grimacing, Sam answers by moving his coat out of his lap where it was hiding his erection. He can feel Dean’s eyes on him, Dean judging him, and waits for the teasing to begin. No way Dean is going to let something this juicy pass without having a go at Sam, no matter how hurt or soul-tired he is.

“Huh,” Dean huffs out eventually. “How long has this been going on?”

“Since you woke up,” Sam admits.

Dean’s quiet for a moment, processing that, and then he says, “Go shut the door.”

It’s an odd enough command that Sam lifts his head again. His brother’s face doesn’t tell him anything, though: it’s been months with Dean back behind the wheel of the car, months with him back in Sam’s bed, and Sam still can’t read him right.

“The door, Sammy,” Dean repeats.

Sam still doesn’t know what his brother wants, but Dean asks for things infrequently enough that he gets up and does it anyway. He’s just starting to turn around when Dean says, “When I get out of here, I’m gonna fuck you in the backseat of the car.”

Sam freezes.

“I’m not gonna wait to get back to the room. I’m going to shove you down in the backseat and you’re gonna let me. Gonna be so hot for it you’re gonna get in the way when I’m stripping you down. I’ll have to use your shirt to trap your arms behind you so that I can get your pants off.”

Sam’s dick is about ready to explode, and he grabs at the door to keep himself upright as he looks over his shoulder and says, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Dean looks more like himself than he has since he woke up, actually, and now he throws Sam a weak, but genuine grin. “Not gonna be able to do anything else until I get sprung, and at least one of us should be getting off.”

Sam sees a thought strike his brother, deepening Dean’s grin, and feels his stomach sink. This is not going to be good. His suspicion is confirmed a moment later when Dean says, with slow deliberation, “Hamburger. Steak. Blueberry pie.”

Dean’s deliberately making his voice dirtier than ever, he sounds like he’s fucking the words with his tongue, and Sam grabs his aching cock and hobbles away from the door with a protesting groan. “Dean!”

“Pizza. Corndog. Beef lo-mein.”

Sam’s a little intrigued by just how in tune his libido is with his brother’s voice, but mostly he’s embarrassed by how close he is to coming in his pants. He clutches his cock harder and stumbles over to the bed to clamp his hand down over Dean’s mouth.

“Dude. Not cool. Stop.”

Dean looks up at him, innocent and bruised, and after a moment Sam takes his hand away.

“Banana split.”

Sam drops his hand down again.

“You are _not_ going to make me come by naming all the different kinds of food you want to cram down your throat.”

Dean’s mouth quirks beneath Sam’s palm, which is a distracting enough sensation that he doesn’t fight it when Dean grabs his wrist and pulls his hand away. “I dunno, dude. Kinda looks like I am.”

Sam meets the glint in his brother’s eyes and understands that he isn’t going to be able to avoid coming. He went and outed himself and, for some reason, Dean is determined to keep talking until Sam creams his shorts. Sam wishes he could say that he’s unhappy about it, but he’s actually a little relieved to have the issue taken out of his hands. If Dean wants to do this, then who is Sam to stop him? Taking a couple of steps backwards, he sits in his chair and spreads his legs.

“At least go back to the other thing,” he pleads, pulling down his zipper and getting his cock out.

“What, you mean telling you how I’m going to use my mouth to slick you up? Get you all wet and loose for my cock?”

Sam’s stomach does a somersault and he wraps his hand more firmly around his dick. “Yeah,” he moans, dropping his head back. God, he can almost feel Dean’s tongue now—pushing in, claiming ...

“Too bad, Sammy. Ship’s sailed on that one. Besides, this is more fun. Now, where was I? Oh yeah, banana split.”

Sam silently curses Dean over and over in his head, but that doesn’t stop him from fucking his dick through his fist while Dean recites a list of all the things he’s ever eaten and a couple _(squid ink ice cream, really?)_ that he must have gotten off of that Iron Chef show he likes so much. Sam’s aiming for something at least a little respectable to climax on, but in the end it’s out of his hands and he spills with a reluctant groan. Dean immediately starts chuckling, and the fucked-out, hoarse sound draws Sam’s orgasm out into something that’s almost painful.

Finally, when his cock is softening and he’s panting through the last, pleasurable aftershocks, Sam mutters, “You’re never letting me live this down, are you?”

Dean settles back against his pillows and, smugly, repeats, “Prune. Juice.”

As Sam throws an arm over his face with a mortified groan, his spent dick twitches.

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt was:
> 
>  **Sam/Dean, voice kink.** Oh my god, Dean's wobbly, raspy voice when he was in the hospital after Alistair fucked him up DID THINGS TO ME. Write something involving that, please? Anything.


End file.
